The Long, Dark, Happy-Hour of the Soul

Greetings friends and e-mail intercepting voyeurs,

As the frigid winds frost our skin and freeze our innards, we once again find ourselves in that long, dark happy hour of the soul which we call winter. A time when short days are well suited for introspection; when we find ourselves turning inward to ask ourselves those most universal of human questions, "Who am I? What am I doing here? Why is this CD so hard to get open?

An idea for winter philosophical fun:

Let's have philosophers focus on slightly smaller, bite sized metaphysical conundrums for awhile. Let's take philosophers and randomly assign them to people, so instead of trying to figure out the meaning of life in general, they will just follow people around trying to discover the meaning of their lives.

For example, Does little Bobby love people in costumes because they are fun, or because of an underlying belief that, in reality, all of life is a series of masks we wear in an effort shield our souls from existential heartache and anguish?

Is Jane's propensity to buy porcelain angels just compensation for the underlying metaphysical detachment she feels from a deity she believes exists, but cannot accept the existence of, because she's a Calvinist and doesn't have free-will to do so?

Does Bill love monster truck rallies because he's into trucks, or because he likes to see cars like the ones driven by the detested middle management at his office crushed by the industrial and mechanical might of a unified proletariat brethren?
Well, I was out in Ktty Hawk, North Carolina last month for the 100th anniversary celebration of aviation. Kitty Hawk is in the Outer Banks of the state, which gave me the opportunity to take leisurely, moonlit strolls along the beach while wrapped in my parka. There is something about walking along a beach at night that always sends my thoughts back to the days of our ancient mariner forefathers, who set out to the seas in search of deep fried cod with which to stock their Long John Silver's.

I also visited Roanoke, site of the mystery shrouded "Lost Colony". Regrettably, despite my best efforts, I'm saddened to inform you that the "Lost Colony" is indeed, still lost.

The road trip also afforded me the chance to indulge myself in my favorite interstate cultural activity. Bathroom stall art appreciation at truck stops. I was disappointed that there seems to be nary an ounce of evolution in bathroom art since the time I became interested in it as a small child. Where are the Monets? The Renoirs? Rembrandts? Why must we be satisfied with half drawn sketches of anatomical apparatus? Even cave people got bored of that after awhile and started painting reindeer. Where is the landscape? The still life? The foreshortening? Master artists of the world, I implore you, let not another decade pass with bathroom art stagnancy! Your canvas awaits you along the interstates of this great land!

Take care!

Peter